Metro: Damnation
by LuxDragon
Summary: Fear the light. Fear the dark. Fear the future. For Artyom, it seemed nowhere was safe. For the sake of his home station, he would do whatever it took to make it safe against the rising threat of the Dark Ones. Easy to say, but what would be the true cost of victory? Novelization of Metro 2033.
1. Prologue

"_Artyom… wake up, Artyom…"_

"_Mama?"_

"_We're here, Artyom. Let's go."_

The blurry vision of his surroundings had nothing to do with wakefulness. Try as he might, Artyom could not see his mother's face. He saw the pink sweater, the faded blue jeans, the dark hair—the same shade he had inherited—but her face was ever so blurry.

His mother held her hand out to him. Jostling slightly under constant motion from the train, his tiny hand six-year-old hand reached out to take hers…

"Artyom? Wake up!"

**~o~O~o~**

Startled awake from his dream—memories—Artyom's eyes snapped open. Blearily, he looked around the darkened room-small, cramped, but familiar. His observations were interrupted when a tiny click followed by a sudden burst of light which forced him to turn his eyes away and hold up his hand to block the offending source from the nearby table.

"Artyom, you must get up," his adopted father, Alex, sternly said.

Adjusting to the light, Artyom nodded and rubbed his eyes. "Uncle? What is it?"

"Hunter is coming," Alex said. "We should receive him. He should have news from the other stations. Also, I need to check the condition of those in the hospital. Come along now."

Nodding again, Artyom hid his sigh with a yawn. He was no longer six years old, but twenty. He was not riding a train to the botanical gardens with his tortured faded memories of his departed mother, but living in Exhibition Station with his adopted father—whom he affectionally has called uncle ever since Alex adopted him—in his personal tiny bedroom.

"Are you all right, son?" Alex worriedly asked.

"I'm fine, Uncle," Artyom replied. "You said Hunter is coming?"

Alex nodded. "Yes. I'm expecting he shall arrive shortly. Let's go."

Sitting up in his bed, Artyom fumbled around for his boots and quickly put them on. "I'm ready."

"Good. Be sure to turn off the light before leaving," Alex said, semi-sternly, before walking out.

Artyom took a moment to observe his collection of postcards, reminders of an age now completely destroyed by man's folly, before doing as he was told and turning off the light.

Power was important to maintain in the Metro, and carelessly leaving lights on was something Alex frowned upon. With the world ruined, the underground Metro housed the remaining vestiges of humanity. As he slipped on a jacket, Artyom dimly remembered the day everything ended. The air raid sirens, his mother's panicked voice as she carried him to his new life underground, the desperation, the fear, the hopeless as darkness entrenched on their senses while nuclear fire engulfed the surface…

The world had ended over a decade ago, but humans endured. Forty thousand Russians living in Moscow all sought shelter in the Metro stations threaded throughout the city. There, they carved out their new existence below ground, creating homes and turning the Metro into a fortress to shield the survivors from the irradiated surface, the endless winter, and the birth of nightmarish mutants that freely took to the surface or roamed the darkness of the tunnels.

Dispelling his errant thoughts, Artyom left the confines of his modest room. Closing and locking the door behind him, he jogged through the tight, and perhaps to some unlucky few, claustrophobic hallways to catch up to his father.

"Let's go, Artyom," Alex called out over his shoulder without breaking stride.

Alex may have been well into his sixties, with full head of grey hair, but his stocky size and purposeful strides showed that he was still fit and capable. Alex seldom talked about his life before the Metro, but given how his father carried himself, Artyom privately thought that Alex may have been in the military one upon a time.

As they ascended some steps, a doctor rounded the corner above them and waited until they reached the top.

"Alex."

"Yes, Nikolay?"

"The station can't survive much longer if these attacks don't stop," Nikolay said matter-of-factly. "We must do something."

Alex sighed in frustration or annoyance and resumed walking. "What more can we do?"

Artyom could only shrug at Nikolay and hurried to keep pace with his father.

"Do you have idea what to do, Uncle?" Artyom asked when he caught up.

"We'll see what Hunter says," Alex replied.

Artyom nodded and followed along silently.

Exhibition was one of the bigger stations, providing much of the mushrooms many of the other stations enjoyed, either as food, vodka or tea. Unsurprising since it used to be one of the busiest stations from before the war. Artyom could even recall its former name: Exhibition of Achievements of the People's Economy. However, unlike most of the other stations, Exhibition was remained stubbornly neutral from the other city-states that make up various government bodies of the Metro. In addition to mushrooms, Exhibition was also able to raise pigs, which provided food and leather.

Privately, Artyom was proud to be raised in Exhibition. It was civilized with its citizens able to eat and sleep in comfort and safety. Laws had been established to ensure children were taught to read and write, with books coming all the way from Polis Station. Collapsed tunnels safeguarded on area, allowing manpower to be diverted to stand guard at outposts at the remaining tunnels to ensure any threat, be it mutant or human, could not enter Exhibition. Every man of age takes a turn at guarding the passages, with each one trained in the use of firearms, including Artyom himself.

After a few minutes, both men were finally approaching the hospital. Sadly, it was placed near one of the few doors leading right to the surface. It was by necessity, in the event that a plague or some other infectious disease was discovered among the patients. The doors to the hospital could be sealed, preventing the sick from going deeper into Exhibition and threatening the populace. The only other way out was into certain death from the wasteland of old Moscow.

Alex knocked on the heavy door.

"No visitors!" came a muffled reply from the other side.

"Petr!" Alex calmly called back.

A slot in the door opened and a man peered through. "Oh, it's you!"

The slot closed, but a moment later, the entire door opened instead. "Come in, Alex."

Alex nodded and walked through. Artyom couldn't help but glance at the large crowd of people, held back by several guards. Hurrying through the door, he nodded at Petr.

"Hello, Artyom," Petr kindly said. He swiftly closed the door. "I know they want to see their loved ones, but the hospital is full, and our medics are busy trying to keep the survivors alive. It's an uphill battle I hear."

"So we can't have the others in here to crowd the area," Artyom said. He had already observed several curtains, each containing cots with men moaning in agony.

"Exactly," Petr said before sitting back down and resuming his post.

"How are the wounded?" Alex asked one of the physicians.

The old doctor heaved a sigh. "Not much improvement. Two died this morning."

"The Dark Ones…" Artyom whispered.

Alex nodded. "The Dark Ones do not kill outright. But they damage a victim's mind… sooner or later, this leads to death."

"It makes one almost wish we were dealing with regular mutants," Artyom said, trying to keep upbeat.

No one could accurately describe what the Dark Ones were, or what they even looked like. Those that encountered them either disappeared, or were broken men, muttering gibberish about moving inky blackness, darkness, or other assorted nightmares. One of the more coherent "survivors" had coined the name Dark Ones to label the threat Exhibition now faced.

"It would almost be a godsend," the doctor replied. "God, when will this ever end? I can't take it anymore."

Artyom avoided making eye contact with the unfortunate souls twisting and turning in their cots. He and Alex passed through the far door, which led into a guard outpost. An even bigger and heavier imposing metal door blocked the way at the opposite side. Beyond it, the merciless desolation of the ruins of Moscow lay just beyond.

Alex crossed his arms and waited patiently. Artyom didn't even have time to wonder how long they would have to wait when there was a knock on the door.

The guards manning the door were startled. "What the hell? Who could that be?"

"It's Hunter," Alex answered.

The guard in charge, Kiril, rolled his eyes at his two subordinates. "Mutants don't knock, you idiots—open the damned gate."

The guards hurried to follow their orders. Artyom had to wrap his jacket tighter around him as the icy winds of the surface chilled room. Bathed in sunlight, an armored figure cut an intimidating presence.

"Welcome to Exhibition, Hunter!" Kiril greeted.

Hunter pulled a large bag through the threshold of the airlock doors before stepping through. "Thanks. Now close your gate!" he barked; his voice muffled through his gas mask.

"It's been a long time, Hunter," Alex warmly said.

As soon as the doors were closed, Hunter took off his gas mask and took a deep breath. "Good to see you, Alex," he said before walking up and shaking hands. He looked over Alex's shoulder and smiled. "Hello, Artyom!"

"Hello, Hunter," Artyom said with a smile of his own.

Whatever relationship Alex and Hunter shared, Artyom suspected it was due to Alex's past as a possible soldier, which would no doubt appeal to Hunter.

However, the relationship shared between Hunter and Artyom was different. While all men in Exhibition had to train how to use firearms, Artyom had shown an unusual level of talent that set him apart from his peers. It didn't seem to matter what sort of gun was in his hands, as long as he could shoot it, he quickly became proficient in it.

It was that talent that caught Hunter's eye when he visited Exhibition all those years ago, and since then, Hunter had taken it upon himself to hone Artyom's skill. At first, Hunter had been gruff, like a drill sergeant, but had long since become friendly and encouraging as Artyom's talents grew.

Artyom remained thankful for Hunter's tutelage, especially when it quite probably saved his life during a mutant attack at the outpost he had been assigned to a year or so previous. His peers had been in awe of his ability to hit every target in the dimly lit tunnels with very few misses, accounting for most of the kills that evening.

After all, it wasn't as if anyone could be personally taught how to shoot by a Spartan Ranger.

The military might of Polis Station, the Polis Rangers, often going by their nickname, the Spartan Order or Spartans, were widely considered to be the most skilled soldiers in all of the Metro. Hunter was one such soldier.

"So Hunter, what's happening in the outside world these days?" Alex asked. He gestured that they seat themselves around the campfire the guards had been sitting at moments ago.

Hunter's countenance was grim. "Not much. Most of what I hear is about Exhibition—and the 'undead' infesting your tunnels."

"No one knows what they are or where they come from?" Artyom asked.

Hunter shook his head and rummaged through his rucksack. "No. It seems your station is the lucky one to make first contact with this breed of mutant… ah, here it is."

"What is it?"

"I met a trader selling old postcards of New York City," Hunter answered. He carefully took out a postcard and held it out. "I thought of your wall."

Carefully taking the wrinkled paper, Artyom studied the image of a statue he knew of through some of the books in the library.

_The Statue of Liberty… I suppose she too lies in ruins now… a beautiful, tragic waste…_

"These are not the usual mutant creatures," Alex gravely said and pulling the conversation back on track. "This is something else… something much worse."

"Hmph. Dark Ones," Hunter said, almost dismissively. "Well, whatever in the hell they are, my Order has a motto: If it's hostile, you kill it."

"The Dark Ones do not kill outright," Alex cautioned.

Before he could continue, the loudspeaker above beeped before a female voice spoke. "Intruder alarm in the main vent shaft—they're coming from above!"

Kiril grunted and check his kalash. "Shit! Just what we needed!"

"There are wounded here just behind the wall… The hospital…" one of the other guards said.

Alex opened a nearby locker and pulled out a kalash. "Kiril, take your group to the tunnels. Hunter and I—"

"Alex, we must stay here and defend the hall," Hunter said before Alex could finish. He shot a meaningful look at Artyom.

Alex hesitated for a moment before reluctantly agreeing. "Alight. Artyom, take the revolver."

Artyom picked up the .44 Magnum along with some ammo. He deftly popped the cylinder and saw it was loaded before setting it back in. Pocketing the bullets, Artyom stood in a loose circle with the older men.

"Damn! They never come this far into the station!" Alex said.

"It's the hospital—they smell the blood!" Hunter grimly said.

They waited in silence for only a few seconds, though to Artyom, if felt like minutes, before the roars of the nosalis' could be heard. They were the kinds of mutant he was quite familiar with. Territorial predators, they were vicious, yet a common sight in the new apocalyptic world. It was widely believed that the nosalises were mutated from pests like moles or shrews, but now grew to be bipedal, hunched back, with a large head filled with snapping teeth with matching claws on their hands and feet. They tended to roam in packs, but despite such advantages, were quite easy to kill, making them more akin to target practice so long as he didn't let himself get overconfident and let a nosalis tear out his throat from behind.

"Four vents in this room," Alex muttered.

"Five," Artyom corrected. "The one above us."

Alex tore his eyes away from the walls and looked up at the circular vent above their head. "Damn."

It was good thing Artyom had said something. No sooner than their gazes focused on the solitary vent above was when a nosalis breached the room through it. Hunter was quickest on the draw and fired a three-round burst into the beast.

The growls grew in intensity. Alarm bells were ringing throughout the station now, giving warning to the women, children, and elderly to seek shelter while all able-bodied fighters were to man their posts.

nosalises were charging into the rectangular vents on the walls now. Hunter and Alex raised their Kalash's and proceeded to fire away.

Artyom took careful aim with his revolver and easily put a round into the oversized head of the mutant. Taking care not to damage to vents, he fired the last five rounds in the handgun at five more mutants, using their bodies to plug up the vents and prevent any other nosalises from coming in.

The fight was brief, but furious. The three men won out in the end though when the way in was blocked by the dead. The nosalises in the vents had to give up and retreat.

Once the growls had faded away, Hunter carefully shined his headlamp into the ceiling vent. "Looks clear," he declared.

Artyom carefully and deliberately loaded the cylinder one round at a time as Hunter had taught him. Haste and panic would infinitely do more harm; it was better to have one bullet in the chamber than none at all. At least that way, he could either take out one more threat, or eat the bullet himself if needed.

Glancing at his foster father, Artyom's theory about Alex's military background seemed to get stronger and stronger. It was the first time he had ever seen the older man hold a weapon, but he held it with confidence and familiarity.

Once he was sure the danger had passed, Alex lowered the barrel and sought out his adopted son. "Artyom, are you all right?"

Arytom nodded, but Hunter answered. "Of course—he's a dead-eye shot, this one."

Artyom fairly beamed under the praise from the Spartan Ranger.

Hunter kicked one of the bodies and frowned. "No Dark Ones here… just the usual 'tunnel trash'."

Alex shook his head. "Even when you don't see them—the Dark Ones are there. Fear—that's their weapon, that's what made the nosalises run through the tunnels like rats. The Dark Ones are not simple mutants—they Homo Novus, the next step in evolution."

Artyom recalled reading about the Latin words, 'Homo Novus' in ancient Roman history books.

_New Man._

"You've heard about 'survival of the fittest'?" Alex asked angrily. "Guess what? We lost."

It was the first time Artyom had ever seen his foster father lose his composure, and it was heart-breaking to see.

"What's happened to you, Alex?" Hunter asked for spitting on one of the corpses. "You can go like lambs to the slaughter—I'll hang on to whatever life I got, with teeth and claws. And I'll take more than a few of your 'Homo Novus' with me to hell!"

Alex almost laughed and pointed at the door to the hospital. "You think you're some old movie cowboy? Have a look, Hunter! Ten soldiers trained in combat; their bodies broken, their minds gone!"

Before Hunter could retort, a guard burst into the room from the hospital. "The Dark Ones—they destroyed the outer guard post!"

The three men were stunned, but only for a moment before they ran through the station. It had been crowded before but was now eerily devoid of people. Artyom knew they were hiding in their homes; he could hear children crying, mothers whispering, as he ran by, but he still couldn't shake the idea that it was an omen… that his station, his home, was under attack by an enemy the couldn't even identify. That without help, Exhibition would be no more.

They reached the outer tunnels, but as the guard had said, the outpost was no more. The men were still alive, but their eyes were wide open, mouths gaping in silent screams with their hands clawing at phantoms only they could see.

Alex swept the room, weapon ready before kneeling down to check on the guards.

Hunter ignored men around him. Instead, he knelt down and closely inspected some tracks. Artyom walked to his mentor and tried to discern what pattern in the loose rock and dirt Hunter had seen.

"The Devil knows what's happening out there, beyond your perimeter," Hunter muttered. He glanced at Alex. Sure that the older man was out of earshot, he turned to face Artyom. "I must go recon the situation."

"By yourself?" Artyom asked in shock. He couldn't help but observe the broken men that had once been guards of this outpost, now reduced to shadows reflect terror and fear.

Hunter nodded. He grabbed Artyom's arm and pulled him toward the tunnel, further away from Alex until they were out of his line-of-sight. "There's no time to wait. Listen carefully, Artyom. If I'm not back here by morning, you must get to Polis Station and find a man named Millar. Tell him what's happened to me, and what's stirring in the northern tunnels."

"Me?" Artyom blurted out. His mouth felt dry and his hands clammy. It was one thing to learn how to shoot, but he was not a soldier. Certainly, nothing like Hunter, there was no comparison.

"You can do it, I believe in you," Hunter said with a firm clap on Artyom's shoulders. He reached under his collar and pulled out a small chain with a pair of dog tags attached. "Show this to Miller, so he knows I've sent you. I trust everything to you, Artyom. Don't let me down."

Artyom grasped the chain and studied the tags. One side was stamped with the heraldry of the Spartan Order, the other had Hunter's name, serial number, and blood type.

Hunter drew his Kalash and boldly walked into the dark tunnel. "If we are to survive, this threat must be eliminated. No matter the cost—eliminated! Understand?"

"Yeah… I understand, Hunter," Artyom said, though his voice had been so quiet, he wasn't sure Hunter had heard him.

Checking his watch, Artyom prayed that Hunter would return as promised.


	2. Journey to Riga

Morning came and went. Artyom had spent the day moving the guards to the hospital or the areas next to the hospital when it was full. Every chance he got, Artyom peered through the dank tunnel, hoping to see Hunter's headlamp and was disappointed every time he did so. When Alex had heard what Hunter had done, he shook his head sadly and quietly retreated to his quarters. They never spoke about it.

A few days later, Artyom's shift was up and he was now manning his post. He kept his back to the fire, choosing to keep his eyes on the tunnel ahead to preserve his night vision. Just as Hunter had taught him. The other guards around him were on edge, especially considering their recent round of casualties. Some were smoking, a habit Artyom did not care for on guard duty. Hunter taught him that the smoke or dim light given off by the cigarette could easily alert any hostiles to their location. Others were chatting quietly, trying to keep their minds off what had happened, yet the conversation always seemed to drift back to recent events and whether they were next. Artyom choose to tune them out as well.

Cradling Hunter's tags in his hand, Artyom thought long and hard about his decision. He had given his word to Hunter and respected him enough that he would do all he could to keep it. In addition, Hunter helped defend the hospital. Everyone had been so focused on the Dark Ones that the other mutants managed to sneak in unnoticed until it was almost too late. If Hunter had arrived an hour later, the outcome may have been far bloodier. However, Hunter's final request was not a simple one. The journey to Polis was not a short one, nor was it easy. Artyom was not arrogant enough to believe himself the same caliber as Hunter or any Polis Ranger for that matter. To make the trip—survive the trip—required far more skills than a mere aptitude with guns.

Word had spread through Exhibition about Hunter's disappearance like wildfire. If a Spartan couldn't handle the threat, then they were woefully ill-prepared. To further compound their problems, they were now shorthanded to maintain their defense, whether it was against the usual fair of mutants or bandits, never mind the Dark Ones. The leaders of Exhibition, Alex among them, brokered an alliance with Riga Station to requisition more men to supplement their flagging numbers. In return, Exhibition was prepared to barter goods with them. A handcart would deliver the goods tomorrow and volunteers to guard the shipment were called upon.

Artyom had immediately signed up.

Footsteps coming from Exhibition quietly reached the guard post. Artyom glanced behind him to see the next shift had finally arrived. Standing up, he holstered his revolver and approached the closest one. "Privet. All has been quiet here. I hope it stays the same with you."

"Thanks, Artyom," Sergei said, though he was a tad nervous. "You sure you saw nothing?"

"I'm sure," Artyom replied. The other guards that were assigned to Artyom's group murmured their assent as they shuffled out, finally free of their duty for the time being. "Take care."

"Thanks, you too."

Once in the confines of his room, Artyom softly traced the border of his latest postcard, Hunter's final gift to him. It was a small thing, but it too, like the dog tags, were a reminder of a friend now gone.

"I won't let you down, Hunter."

**~o~O~o~**

Artyom was up early the next day, packing essentials for the long trip, but taking care not to look like he wasn't going any further than Riga, lest he drew attention to his plans. Some .44 caliber bullets, some military grade 7.62 cartridges, which served as currency in the Metro. Paper money had long since been used up… as kindling to start fires. Mil ammo now served as the new method of bartering and had long since been accepted by all denizens of the Metro.

_Today is the day._

If Artyom had to be honest with himself, he would say he was excited to go. Polis was considered the center of Mosco civilization, and perhaps, all of Russia. Scientists, philosophers, scholars, men and woman of intellect called Polis their home. Artyom had always dreamed of going there. However, alongside his excitement was an equal measure of guilt. He was going to leave his home behind, his father, his friends. They would need him the most in their time of need against the growning threat of the Dark Ones, yet Hunter entrusted him with this task. Artyom reasoned that he was not abandoning his station. He was merely requesting more capable help to combat this threat.

There was a light knock on his door frame. "Artyom, all ready to go?"

"Yes, Eugene. Just making sure I have what I need," Artyom muttered as he triple-checked his rucksack.

"We're only going to Riga," Eugene said with a laugh. "What more can you possibly need?"

"It's the first time either of us has gone to Riga," Artyom replied. "I'm going to stay a bit longer to take a look around, you know?"

Eugene shrugged. "Why would you? They're nothing but country bumpkins. Simple folk. Nice enough people, but not too bright upstairs."

The people of Rizhskaya Station, Riga for short, had always appeared clumsy to the citizens of Exhibition. Something always seemed to be happening at Riga: their pigs getting sick, structural damage, excess of drinking, partying and gambling their bullets away… the list went on.

However, now a new alliance was forged, and Riga stepped up to help Exhibition. It was something Artyom was grateful for, but he couldn't help but wonder how much help could they truly offer against a mutant no one had ever seen and lived with their sanity intact?

"Anyway Artyom, hurry up. They're waiting for us at the platform and we need to report to the armory for our weapons," Eugene said before walking off, singing a little ditty as he left.

_Watch, compass, canteen, dried food, bullets, ammo, knife, headlamp, portable charger, first aid kit, notebook with maps…_

Artyom would have liked to pack some spare clothes but knew that the added bulk to his rucksack would have drawn attention.

_I suppose I will have to make some purchases on the way._

Feeling as ready as he'll ever be—which wasn't much—Artyom looked around his room one last time and wondered if he would ever return. There was his wall covered in postcards, shelves filled with books that he read at least twice over on anything and everything he could afford, and his guitar. Running his fingers long the strings of the instrument, he plucked a chord before steeling his resolve once again. Turning off the lights, he locked the door and headed out.

Going deeper in Exhibition, he waved his greetings at various passerby. He took a moment to stop at a nearby room when he heard a record playing with music he had not heard before.

The old men sitting inside smiled at him before the one sitting on the bed spoke. "Like it?"

Artyom nodded. "It's lovely."

The other man sitting on the chair grinned. "What I want to know is: where did you get it?"

"Got it from a Ranger for a ton of ammo."

Laughing, the old man asked, "You're sure you don't regret getting it?"

"Just listen and see if you laugh later."

Leaving them alone, Artyom continued through the mazelike area of the residential section of the station. He could hear one of the Council's pages giving a notice to the crowd in the common area before he even got there.

Artyom listened to the announcement with half an ear, but it was information he had already known from Alex; military alliance with Riga, joint issues concerning trade and defense, resources, etc. Picking his way through the crowded market, he finally got to the armory where the Quartermaster seemed to be waiting for him.

"Hello Artyom! Taking your time as usual," he laughed before placing a weapon on the table. "Well, let's get started. Submachine gun, 5.45 caliber—made in the Armory."

Artyom grimaced. "You don't have anything else?"

The old man shrugged. "We need to save the better stuff for the guards in the northern tunnels. We're not expecting too much trouble for a handcart to Riga, so the cheap stuff goes to you youngsters."

"The Bastard isn't cheap. A knife is cheap. That thing is a curse," Artyom muttered, but took the weapon anyway. He gave it a visual inspection, but little else. It never mattered how well the Bastard SMG was maintained, it always seemed to jam every two magazines or so due to its tendency to overheat from its characteristic high rate-of-fire.

The Quartermaster dropped a couple of magazines as well as a gas mask.

Slipping the magazines into his pocket, Artyom carefully picked up the gas mask and gave it a more thorough inspection for any possible cracks or breaches.

"I can't spare any filters I'm afraid," the old man said, "but I doubt you'll be spelunking on the surface, and god help you if you do. At worst, you might run into a radiation hot zone from here to Riga, though I doubt it. Still, pays to be prepared, right?"

Artyom nodded and hooked the mask onto his belt. "Is that all?"

"Yep. Safe travels, my boy!"

Giving his thanks, he left the armory and jogged towards the platform. His foster father's office was on the way. Artyom paused outside the door, debating whether he should go inside or not. He disliked lying to Alex, but he knew how dangerous his journey would be.

_No regrets, Artyom. Just go in and say goodbye. No need to say more than that._

Familiar music drifted across his consciousness. Turning around, he saw Sukoi playing his guitar for his family huddled around a fire. It was a song Artyom knew well and could play himself. Listening to the notes calmed his nerves and allowed him to regain his equilibrium. He knocked on the door and heard a muffled, "Come in!"

Alex was writing something down in a ledger of some sort but stopped when he saw who it was. "Ah, come, son! You're ready to set off?"

"I am, Uncle. Just came to see goodbye."

"Good, good," Alex said. "The railcar you're guarding has some important cargo for Riga, mainly weapons and other miscellaneous gear. It's not a very long trip, and it shouldn't be too hard."

"I'll be fine, Uncle," Artyom assured before turning to go. "Boris is in charge. He's made the trip dozens of times, right?"

"Artyom, wait."

A sliver of panic ran down Artyom's spine.

_Did he figure out what I'm going to do?_

"One thing before you go," Alex said.

Artyom immediately relaxed. He recognized the tone. Alex was in his life-lesson parental persona. Some children may balk at the lecture, but Artyom always listened. Good advice was simply something that helped one survive in this new age.

"I can see that you look up to Hunter," Alex said. "But a Ranger's life is… different than ours. They are reckless—even violent—by nature. There's nothing to be gained by playing the hero, so stay clear of trouble. See the caravan to its destination and come home as soon as possible."

Artyom nodded and smiled to avoid lying outright to his foster father.

Alex smiled. "Goodbye, my boy. See you soon."

**~o~O~o~**

As expected, Eugene was already in the car. He was fidgeting excitedly, eager to get started and leave Exhibition for once, even if it was to Riga.

Boris was leaning against the guardrail, taking a smoke break. When Eugene called out, Boris glanced at Artyom before taking one last deep drag and flicking the butt away. Idly scratching at his graying beard, he said, "Privet. So, are you ready to move out?"

Artyom nodded and settled into the handcar next to Eugene.

Boris sat next to the break lever with a small groan. The chair beneath him squeaked a bit. "Did anyone forget anything?"

"I didn't, but you'll have to make sure Artyom is set," Eugene joked.

"I'm ready," Artyom assured quietly.

Before they could set off, an unfamiliar man ran up to them carrying an enormous backpack. "Hey, guys, you going to Riga?"

"Yeah, we are," Boris answered.

"Can I get a lift?"

Boris shrugged. "Sure, but no free rides; you'll have to pull the lever sometimes."

The man grinned. "Heh… I can do that."

"Let's go then," Boris said and pointed at the lever next to him.

The man placed his backpack on top of the supplies and stepped on. Gripping the lever, he pushed down hard with a grunt and the car slowly lurched forward.

"Alrighty then! Good luck to everyone staying at home! And to us too!" Boris said.

"Good luck to us!" Eugene cheered.

As the cart picked up speed, Boris smiled at the two young men sitting across from him. "So, are you two ready to finally be somewhere else?"

"Oh, definitely!" Eugene said, unable to contain his excitement. "Woo-hoo, Artyom! Free at last… well, for as long as the ride takes, anyway. It should be fun… or dangerous, even better, right?"

Artyom tried to manufacture a smile, but he was sure it came out as a grimace. He had felt more confident standing at the station. Now that they were under way, with the route to Polis mapped out in his mind, Artyom actually felt a bit ill as the full weight of Hunter's task came crashing down on his shoulders.

It was the first time he left the relative safety of his station, and for his maiden journey, he was about to navigate his way through kilometers of foreign tunnels and abandoned stations, with constant threats lurking around every corner, every shadow.

Eugene may have looked excited at the prospect of danger, but Artyom saw danger as a possible end to his short life.

They made idle chatter for a few minutes as the cart sped along the track at a steady pace. Clearly, their new travelling companion was used to handcarts. His breathing was heavy, but even, and had yet asked for any of them to take over.

"So, where are you from?" Boris asked.

"Riga. I'm making the rounds, buying merchandise," the trader answered.

"Wow. Bet you've seen a few places, then," Eugene said.

"Yeah, the Market is right next to Riga, and that's a big Metro already," the trader said. "I used to make regular trips to Polis but getting there now requires a lot of luck. That or being from Hansa."

Artyom listened intently, and inwardly frowned when the Hansa was mentioned. Formally, they were called the Commonwealth of the Stations of the Ring Line, the Hanseatic League, Hansa for short. Their form of government was closely related to capitalism, but in the worst sense in every way. They controlled about twenty stations, which already made their territory the largest. What made them rich was the location of their territory. What was once known as the Ring Line, several of their stations were located at key points that ultimately became vital for trade throughout the entire Metro. Since they were in control, the Hansa became rich in a short amount of time. Such wealth led the greedy merchants to jealously guard their mound on the hill and they now maintain a strict isolationist mindset, allowing other stations to trade, but caring little for anyone that was not a Hansa citizen. Their military power wasn't the strongest, but it was nothing to scoff at either. Coupled with their vast wealth, this made the Hansa one of the four strongest city-states in the Metro.

As it stood, Artyom's route took him around Hansa territory.

"Hansa connects to the whole Metro and has a lot of stations, but doesn't welcome outsiders," the trader explained to Eugene. "And if it's not Hansa, then you have to go through the Reds, Nazis, or your regular bandits. And these guys are really going at it lately—if they're not fighting everyone else, they're warring with each other."

Artyom scoffed to which Boris gave him a knowing look. In Artyom's mind, skirting Hansa territory was infinitely better than trying his luck through the Red Line or Reich controlled stations. Representing Communists and Fascists ideals respectively, they were throwbacks from a bygone age. Even after humanity had destroyed itself, their grievances continued. If just half the stories he heard about either territory was true, it made Artyom glad he was part of Exhibition. Perhaps he was looking at the world naively, but the idea that war could continue even after the last Great War forced them underground like rats seemed so pointless. However, it was their military might—and their willingness to use that might—that made them the other two powerful city-states in the Metro, with Polis being the fourth.

"Stop pushing for a moment," Boris suddenly said.

The trader was happy to do so and took a moment to catch his breath.

Artyom looked at Boris, but the older man was looking at something ahead. Twisting in his seat, Artyom spotted one of the final tunnel checkpoints of Exhibition coming up.

Boris pulled on the break, even when one of the guards was calling out to them.

"Slow down guys!"

"Peter, what's up?" Boris asked when the cart grinded to a halt.

"Military caravan got stuck near Alexeyevskaya," Peter answered. "A tunnel collapse or some other shit. You have to use the service tunnel bypassing Alexeyevskaya."

Boris growled under his breath. "Oh, fuck, I hate this tunnel…"

Both Artyom and Eugene shot him inquisitive looks.

"Alright, Peter. Open up the gate," Boris said, somewhat reluctantly. "No point being stuck here forever…"

It was Eugene that gave voice to Artyom's question as Peter did as he was told. "Why? What's wrong with that tunnel?"

"Well… it's an ordinary tunnel, not as well lit maybe… I went through there last month, and… well, I just I don't like it, that's all," Boris answered evasively.

Once the airlock door opened, the trader stood back up and started pushing again. Artyom noticed that he was putting a bit more effort this time around as the cart picked up speed and went right instead of straight.

"Have a safe trip!" Peter called out as they rounded the bend.

Eugene looked worried.

"We're riding a handcar and we're armed, so I think we'll make it there okay," Boris assured.

All the same though, Artyom unslung his Bastard and checked to see if the magazine was seated properly. When Eugene saw what he was doing, he hurriedly pulled out his Duplet. Privately, Artyom was a bit jealous of Eugene's fortune. Artyom would have rather had a Duplet himself over the Bastard. Like the Bastard, the Duplet was a Metro-made weapon. Two metal tubes, some wood, other metal bits, and you basically had a double-barrel shotgun stripped down to its barest components it needed to fire. For up close and personal confrontations, it was hard to beat, especially if the operator decided to unleash both barrels at the same time. There was always the issue of reloading, but it was still a far more reliable weapon than the Bastard.

The lantern attached to the railcar seemed too dim in the dank tunnel. Artyom flicked on his headlamp for added light, which prompted Eugene and Boris to do the same.

The atmosphere wasn't just uninviting, it was foreboding. In some ways, it seemed as if the tunnel itself was demanding they turn away. Artyom found himself gripping his gun tighter than necessary and forced himself to relax.

"Damn, does my head hurt," Boris suddenly said.

Artyom glanced at the older man quizzically. He had broken out in a light sweat despite the chilly air of the tunnel.

"If you help push the lever, we'll get there sooner," the trader said, through heavy pants.

"Okay, Eugene, you go help the man—we should move faster here," Boris ordered. "You watch our backs, Artyom."

Artyom nodded and kept his weapon ready.

Eugene placed his shotgun on his seat as he stood up and started pushing the other lever in front of him. "Sure, I'll help. That way we'll get to Riga in no time, right?"

A shadow flickered at the edge of Artyom's light, but when he tried to focus on it, it was gone. Another shadow, to the right edge this time. Again, gone.

He was sure the shadows were outlines of people, not mutants, but no matter where he shined his light, there was no sign of life. But he **felt** something was **there**.

_Who are they? What is this?!_

"We should get out of here quickly," the trader said. His voice carried a hint of panic. "It's scary when they're around… and I pity them."

Eugene stared at the man worriedly. "'Them'? Who's 'Them'?"

The trader suddenly stopped pushing and slumped into his seat. "Can you hear them weep?"

Before Artyom could ask, a high-pitched whine started flooding his ears, almost lancing through his brain. Gritting his teeth, he screwed his eyes shut and shook his head in a vain attempt to clear the sensation.

Like the trader, Eugene stopped pushing and fell onto his seat. "Who do you mean 'them'? What are you talking about? What the hell is he going on about, Boris? Boris? Boris?!"

Squinting one eye open, Artyom saw whatever was happening was affecting everyone on the cart.

"Hey… what… what's happening to me…?" Boris rasped out before slumping forward.

Eugene clutched his head. "Oooh… my head… Artyom… what is it?"

It was the last thing Artyom heard before the world stretched and distorted itself before his eyes, then all went white.

**~o~O~o~**

"Artyom! Over here!"

Artyom had no idea where he was, but the voice was one he was glad to hear. "Hunter?!"

"If we are to survive, this threat must be eliminated," Hunter said. His voice sounded like it was coming from a hundred kilometers away, an echo that was barely perceivable. "No matter the cost—eliminated!"

The ghostly image of Hunter raised his Kalash and took aim at an approaching figure. Despite firing away, the shadow approached unimpeded by Hunter's attempts.

When the figure drew near, Artyom saw a visage he had denied ever seeing since he had been a child.

_This is the Dark One!?_

It was a tall figure, at least two and a half meters tall. Bipedal, like a human, but all similarities ended there. The arms were elongated, almost reaching down to the knees upright. It had three fingers and a thumb, also unnaturally long. And its skin was the color of night.

"Don't!" Artyom screamed. Whether it was at the Dark One or Hunter, he didn't know, but he tried to stand up to stop them. "Don't!"

The Dark One did not stop. It closed the distance and pointed at Hunter. The Spartan suddenly fell backward.

It seemed to happen in slow motion. Hunter collapsed onto his back; his rifle skittered away. Artyom tracked his progress in stunned disbelief. It was only after Hunter fell did he notice that they were surrounded by the bodies of others that died, trying to fight or flee from the Dark One.

Artyom gasped when the mutant stood over him. He was sure he was going to die here. Whispers filtered into his subconscious… words he could understand, but too faint to make out.

The Dark One held out its hand, nonthreateningly, perhaps even peacefully. The whispers in Artyom's mind grew insistent but held no malice. Hesitantly, Artyom took the Dark One's hand.

To his surprise, it pulled him to his feet. Once it was sure Artyom could stand on his own, it released him.

_You must wake up… It is dangerous… They are coming…_

The Dark One turned and walked away, leaving Artyom completely dumbfounded as to what had happened. A click was heard, the sound of a hammer being cocked.

Artyom turned and saw that Hunter was still alive. He aimed his revolver at the Dark One and fired five rounds in rapid succession. The Dark One did not even have a chance to turn. It fell to its knees and started to fade away.

As it did, so did the bodies around Artyom's feet. So did Hunter. So did the world.

**~o~O~o~**

His eyes snapped open. With a gasp, Artyom shot up in his seat. Instantly alert, he fumbled around for his Bastard gun. He didn't care how much he hated it, he needed it **now**. Finding it on the floor of the cart, he picked it up and leveled it down the length of the tunnel in the direction they were coming from. He knew there was something lurking in the darkness. He **knew**.

Whatever was there was not showing itself immediately. Keeping one eye peeled for any threat, he looked to his right and saw Eugene was still unconscious. A quick glance at his watch showed that he had only been out for few seconds, certainly less than a minute.

Keeping his gun trained at the unseen threat he knew was there, he reached down with one hand and started to shake his friend. "Eugene, wake up!" Artyom hissed.

The low growls of nostalises could be heard now.

"Wake up!" Artyom said and his shaking intensified.

"Ooooh… my head… what the hell is going on?" Eugene moaned.

"No time to explain, Eugene," Artyom said tightly. "We're being hunted."

Eugene snapped awake and went into flight-or-flight in a blink. "Shit! Wake up people! People! Wake up for Christ's sake! Boris! Wake up, Boris! Shit—it's no good!"

Both the trader and Boris will still unconscious, but there was no time to rouse them.

"Eugene, start pumping the lever. Now!" Artyom barked out. "They're coming!"

The growls changed from threatening to bloodthirsty, and judging from the sounds, there were a lot of them.

"Fuck, I don't think I have enough bullets for this," Artyom said. "Hurry your ass up!"

Eugene started pumping the lever for all that he was worth and yet, he somehow managed to go even faster when the nosalises entered the light. "Oh my god! Shoot them! Shoot them!"

"That's what I'm doing!" Artyom snapped back. The Bastard had a relatively light recoil, so it was easy to make tight groupings on the approaching nosalises. Unfortunately, there were a lot of them, and they were gaining. One managed to even jump aboard the cart.

Artyom lost control of himself and pulled the trigger, spraying into the mutant and killing it, but ended up wasting ammo and finishing off the magazine. "Shit, shit, shit!"

"Boris! Wake up!" Eugene cried out. "Wake up or we're all dead!"

Artyom struggled with the reload, cursing at the piece of shit in his hands. Another nosalis managed to take advantage of the pause in gunfire to leap into the cart. Artyom dropped his gun and fell back into his seat in shock. The nosalis leapt at him. In desperation, Artyom used his legs to block the flailing arms while gripping the top and bottom part of its jaws to prevent it from snapping his face off. Angrily, the nosalis backed off slightly to prepare for a more powerful lunge, only to be stabbed in the shoulder when Artyom took advantage of the reprieve to draw his trench knife and thrust it forward.

A loud boom deafened his right ear into a slight ringing and the nosalis' head was splintered into a gory mess. Artyom turned his head in time to avoid getting ichor splashed into his eyes. Pushing the corpse off the cart, Artyom saw a shotgun being pushed into his hands.

"Take my shotgun! Here!" Eugene frantically implored before pushing the cart to speed again.

Artyom fumbled with the weapon, his hands covered in blood. At that moment, more nosalis' managed to board their cart. One grabbed the trader right across from Artyom and started pulling.

"No!" Artyom shouted.

The trader woke up screaming as the nosalis tore into him. Before Artyom could react, the trader was pulled off the cart and into the waiting maws of the mutants chasing them.

"Fuck!" Artyom yelled before turning the Duplet at the nosalis trying to kill Boris and emptied both barrels into it. Quickly snapping the gun open, he stuffed his hand into Eugene's backpack and pulled out more shells. Deftly putting two into the barrels, he snapped it shut and continued his furious defense.

Artyom managed to down five more mutants, but the volume of roars did not cease. Artyom worriedly glanced at Eugene as he continued to grope around his bag for more ammo.

"Conserve the ammo, Artyom, conserve the ammo!" Eugene pleaded.

"They're not giving me much choice, Eugene! Go faster!" Artyom snapped back. He stepped over the central mechanism of the cart and started kicking Boris in the leg while trying to keep aim on the approaching mutants. "Boris, wake up! Damn it, wake up! I need help here!"

Boris groaned. "What the hell just happened here?"

"Sorry, Boris, but you need to wake up, **now**!" Artyom growled out. He stamped down on Boris' foot with the heel of his boot.

Screaming in pain, Boris shot up in his seat. Whatever curse he wanted to shout was drowned out by another boom from the Duplet. Artyom snapped it open again and was about to load when Eugene screamed.

Turning around, a nosalis was standing over him, clawed hands raised. Artyom rushed forward and used the shotgun to block the strike. Drawing his knife, Artyom shoved it into the side of the mutant's head.

Just as it died though, it gripped Artyom's arm and pulled him off the side. Landing roughly on his flank, Artyom found himself dazed, but quickly pulled himself together. Rolling sideways, he managed to hide underneath a wooden walkway.

_Wooden? Shit, we must be at Riga!_

The staccato of Boris' kalash could be heard down the tunnel. Artyom quashed the impulse to get out and run. Recalling Hunter's teachings, he tried to take stock of his situation before acting, turning off his headlamp as he did so. His choices may have saved his life, because another pack of nosalises were charging down the tunnel after the cart. There was at least a dozen or so keeping up the chase. After they passed, Artyom risked peeking down the tunnel. He judged that the break in the pack was big enough for him to have a chance to run. Switching on his lamp, finding the Duplet, and reloading it, Artyom took off. He stuck to the side of the tunnel, praying that Boris could see his light and didn't hit him.

As he got closer, he could hear more gunfire from various weaponry.

_A guard post!_

"He's alive! I see him! Stop shooting you fools! You'll hit him!" Boris shouted. "Artyom! Run!"

"Hurry Artyom!" Eugene cried out.

"Don't use the flamethrower, please!" Boris implored to the Riga guards. "Give him a chance!"

Putting in one last burst of speed, aware of the snarls behind him, Artyom reached the barricade and leapt right over it, landing unceremoniously face first onto the dirt floor of the tracks.

"Do it!" Boris shouted. "Burn!"

"Let's kick some snout butts!" a Riga guard shouted just as the flamethrower lit up the tunnel.

Panting, Artyom slowly crawled to his feet, marveling over the fact that he was still alive. Peering over the barricade, he saw that the mutant attack was all but over as they were roasted alive. After a few seconds, the flamethrower was turned off and the Riga guards cheered amidst the alarm bells ringing.

"That was hot," Boris muttered. "I need a drink."

"Yeah, me too," Artyom said in complete and utter relief.

If his journey started out like this, he dreaded what the rest of the trip could be like.


	3. Bourbon

_**Riga Station**_

"A toast!" Boris said jovially, catching the attention of everyone in the small bar. "Let's drink to our friend, Artyom, who goes right through monsters and anomalies alike! To Artyom!"

"To you!" Eugene cheered.

Artyom smiled and took a healthy swig of vodka. Letting the familiar caustic drink burn down his throat, he felt it warm him and allowed the strong spirit to fortify his resolve to continue to Polis.

"Hell, if not for you, Artyom, we'd have been shredded like cabbage," Boris said with a wide grin. "You deserve a medal!"

"Thanks, Boris," Artyom modestly replied.

"But since I don't have a medal, here," Boris said, and he kicked a backpack from under the table until it hit Artyom's legs.

Picking up the familiar backpack, Artyom shot a quizzical look at Boris.

"It belonged to that trader, God rest his soul," Boris said. "I didn't know what to do with it; either add it to the supplies we're supposed to deliver, keep it for ourselves, or just sell it, but… I figured you deserve something for saving our lives, so you can have it."

Artyom felt a tad guilty taking the bag. He hadn't even learned the trader's name. Still, it would be a waste to refuse his sudden windfall and his journey would be long, so he didn't argue. At least this would save precious bullets for the road ahead.

"Thanks, Boris," Artyom said.

"To you!" Boris said, and he took another healthy swig.

"Artyom, to you!" Eugene repeated, and he followed suit. After that round, he leaned closer. "Artyom… you really immune to that shit?"

Artyom shrugged. "I have no idea. Maybe we were just lucky."

Boris laughed. "See if that 'shroom vodka knocks him down!"

Eugene grinned and poured everyone a fresh cup. "Okay, we've got to check that!"

Artyom had to laugh and picked up the cup.

"To our luck! And to Artyom!" Eugene said.

"To you!" Boris said.

Artyom drained the entire cup in a few gulps and slammed the cup down. "Whoa…" he said as tried to prevent the contents from coming back up. He mostly succeeded, with only belch to show for it.

Boris laughed again. "The vodka kicks everyone's ass, huh?"

Grinning, Artyom picked up his new backpack and slung it over his shoulder. "That's the last one for me. I need to be able to walk out of here, after all."

"Have fun, my friend!" Eugene said.

"You too, Eugene," Artyom said. "Here."

Eugene blinked when his Duplet was offered. "Oh no, you can keep it. It's much better in your hands than mine."

"Yeah, but you need it to get back home," Artyom said. "I'll make do with what I have. Who knows, maybe I can buy one here?"

Eugene still looked uncertain but accepted his shotgun back. "Thanks, Artyom."

"So, tell me," a nearby patron called to them. Boris turned in his chair. "The tunnel to Market Square has been closed down, and I'm bored to death sitting here on my ass. What happened?"

"We were coming in through a service tunnel," Boris explained. "Something happened, and we were all knocked out. No idea what. When I came to, there was a horde of nosalises chasing us, but our friend Artyom was already up and shooting the bitches, getting Eugene to keep pushing while trying to wake me up. It seems whatever happened didn't affect him."

"I'll drink to such a nice guy, too," the patron said, and he raised his cup. "To Artyom!"

Artyom humbly smiled and left the bar.

_Closed? Shit._

Riga soldiers were everywhere. Some were packing up to be a part of the Exhibition guard, but others were manning their posts.

Artyom walked up to the nearest guard. "What's going on?"

"We're in lockdown, kid. No one is leaving the station," the guard answered.

"Something happen?"

The guard scowled. "Mutant attacks. Really aggressive, too. We're going to smoke them out now while we still have the manpower. Since we're sending some of our men to Exhibition, we need to secure our own tunnels quickly."

Artyom nodded and backed away from the disgruntled guard. Settling down on a nearby bench, he opened his new backpack and started taking a quick inventory. He smiled when he found a revolver and pulled it out. Checking the cylinder, hammer, and barrel, he concluded that it was still in working order and tucked it into his pants. Some bullets and spare clothes along with some knives, food, and water were also there.

_Well, this is better than I hoped for._

Fortuitously, he had everything he'd wanted to buy for the trip ahead except spare gas mask filters and a replacement weapon for his Bastard. He pulled out the contents of his rucksack and placed everything into the bigger bag. Closing it up, he idly wondered how the hell he was going to get out of Riga when suddenly a child, no more than seven or eight years old, pulled at his sleeve.

"Are you Artyom?" the boy asked.

Artyom nodded, while discreetly patting his pocket to see if he still had his bullets.

"Hey, there's a man at the black street waiting for you," the boy said.

"Who is he?" Artyom asked.

The boy shrugged. "I don't know. He just wanted to talk to you. I'll guide you there for one bullet."

Artyom frowned, but since he had nothing better to do, he decided to see where this would lead. "Fine. Instead of a bullet, how about this bag after you take me to wherever it is that you're taking me?"

The boy also frowned, but when he looked at Artyom's old rucksack, he brightened. "Okay, but you'll give that to me after, right?"

"Depends where you're taking me," Artyom answered. "Lead on."

The boy turned around and started jogging. Artyom followed at a brisk walk, keeping his eyes open for any sort of deception. He wasn't about to let his guard down just because a child was being used to lure him somewhere.

"This way! Let's go!"

"I'm coming."

After moving between some shanty-like homes—nothing more than beds within sheet metal, really—and over a couple of makeshift bridges, the boy took Artyom to what looked like a tiny restaurant or café hiding in the middle of the living area of Riga. Inside was just a woman cooking something at a stove and a man smoking at one of the smaller tables.

The boy pointed at the lone man. "That's him sitting over there."

The man looked up and waved Artyom over.

"Okay, here," Artyom said, and he dropped the bag into the boy's waiting arms.

The boy smiled and clutched his new rucksack close to his chest. "Thanks! I'll be going. Bye!"

Artyom stepped aside and let the boy pass without bumping into one another.

The man took another smoke before dropping his cigarette and grinding it under his boot. "Come here," he said in a raspy, gravelly voice. "You're Artyom, right? Sit down."

"What's this about?" Artyom asked warily but took the proffered seat. "And who are you?"

"A business transaction, and everybody calls me 'Bourbon'," he replied. "Listen… I need to get to Dry Station for some other 'business', but this rat-hole is on lockdown. I, however, know a back way—a so-called 'cursed' passage—the locals are afraid to use."

Artyom blinked and glanced uncertainly at the woman standing behind Bourbon.

Bourbon waved off his concerns. "Don't mind Olga. She doesn't give a shit."

Olga scoffed but didn't even bother turning around.

"Look, I heard that the weird shit in the tunnels doesn't work on you," Bourbon continued. "So, you help me get to Dry, I'll give you my AK when we get there. Deal?"

Artyom tilted his head and found his eyes drawn to the weapon offered.

The indestructible Kalash AK-74M was considered as a prized commodity to the inhabitants of the Metro, due to its rugged reliability and accuracy. Exhibition only carried three, and they were only ever lent out to the guards in the northern tunnels. Artyom was fortunate enough to have used it once, when he had made a bit of a name for himself holding back a horde of nosalises single-handedly. Some people believed it had been the weapon, while others praised Artyom himself for his skill with the Kalash.

The Bastard SMG hanging from his shoulder could not compare.

_That could definitely tip the odds in my favor._

"And how many bullets are you going to pay me?" Artyom asked as he looked back into Bourbon's eyes.

The old man let out a raspy laugh. "The gun not good enough for you?"

"Depends on how badly you want to go to Dry," Artyom said. "I'm not some country bumpkin to con here. Bullets. Half now, half when we get there."

Olga laughed. She turned and bonked Bourbon on the head with a wooden spoon. "Seems like he's got you by the balls, Bourbon dear."

"Back off, you old hag!" Bourbon grumbled. "Fine. Twenty bullets and my AK. Ten now, ten and the gun when we get to Dry."

"We have a deal," Artyom said.

"Good," Bourbon grunted. He dropped ten cartridges on the table. "We leave now."

"Now is fine," Artyom said as he deftly scooped up his payment and pocketed it. He tried to keep from smiling, but judging from Olga's laugh, he was failing miserably. "How did you hear about me, anyway?"

Bourbon shrugged and adjusted his backpack. "It's a small station. Word travels quickly. It's information like that that keeps me one step ahead in the game, kid."

As Artyom followed Bourbon, he couldn't help but wonder what 'shit' in the tunnels his new travelling companion could be talking about. In all his years, Artyom had never heard of the tunnels affecting people in such a way. He may have never left Exhibition before, but he was sure some of the Rangers, traders, or Stalkers would have said something about the tunnels knocking people unconscious without warning or something similar to that effect. They always loved to brag about the things they'd seen, fought, survived, and/or killed, especially when they settled into the bar and drank a few rounds.

_Perhaps because there were no survivors to talk about it?_

At best, he had heard stories and legends about the deepest, darkest parts of the Metro—nothing more than ghost stories, really. Nightmare fuel that was created to frighten children so they wouldn't wander off into the tunnels on their own.

After experiencing the event for himself, Artyom had prayed that he never would again, but it seemed Fate had other ideas. He hoped that the stories about the 'cursed' tunnel were just that: stories. But if they weren't, then he sincerely hoped that he was immune to whatever effects the tunnel had on people. Even now, after arriving in Riga alive, Artyom wasn't sure he believed he had any particular immunity against… whatever it was.

The simple explanation was easier to accept. Bourbon needed an extra gun to get through the back tunnels away from the safety of the Riga guards. Once their business was concluded, he would try to snuff Artyom in some dark tunnel somewhere and loot the body. The idea that someone as shifty as Bourbon would accept some random story about someone being immune to the 'shit' in the tunnel was far less believable.

Still, there was no telling when the lockdown would be lifted, and staying stuck in Riga would not help Exhibition. Without better prospects, Artyom decided to throw his lot in with Bourbon and see where the dice would land.

"Hey, handsome," a woman called out.

Artyom glanced to his right and saw a provocatively dressed woman standing next to a burning barrel.

"Why don't you come with me?" she purred out seductively. "I'll show you a good time. Special price for you."

"Not now, whore," Bourbon said without breaking stride. "Let's go, Artyom. Sitting in this craphole is useless."

"Fuck you, bitch," the woman said to Bourbon's retreating back.

Bourbon laughed at her before singing an old folk song loudly and out-of-tune in his sandpaper voice.

Artyom helplessly shrugged at the working woman and wordlessly followed behind the older man.

They travelled to a run-down section of the station, past the shanty homes. In a darkened room, they had to turn on their headlamps to continue navigating past all the forgotten boxes and trash. One particularly big box was the one Bourbon was interested in. As Artyom approached, he could feel a sudden draft.

"This is it," Bourbon said. He grunted with the effort of moving it, but it slid aside easily enough.

Behind the crate was an open door leading into a tunnel. Artyom crinkled his nose at the sudden stench that wafted in.

"Here we are," Bourbon said. "Keep your eyes peeled, the handcar ride is over. Lots of tough guys died in these tunnels. But if we watch each other's backs… we'll get there."

For the umpteenth time, Artyom wondered how he had managed to get himself into this situation. The smell was incredible, almost causing him to wear his gas mask for fear of toxic vapors. He knew he shouldn't, though. His filter supply was limited, and Riga's wares were nonexistent. He'd have to tread carefully and conserve his resources.

Bourbon seemed to know where he was going, so Artyom was content to let him lead. So long as he kept the shady character in sight, it was less likely he would get stabbed from behind.

A mutant was gnawing on something ahead of them. Bourbon raised his Kalash and fired a few rounds at it but missed. The mutant hissed and tried to run, but Artyom took aim with his Bastard and put three rounds into its retreating back.

"Nice shot," Bourbon praised.

"I hate lurkers," Artyom muttered.

It stemmed from his old childhood musophobia—fear of rats—which was closely related to the death of his mother. An unnatural number of rats—hundreds, perhaps even thousands—had charged into the station he and his mother had been living at, Timiryazevskaya Station, shortly after Moscow had been destroyed. The people had run for their lives, but Artyom's mother had not been so fortunate, and the rats had claimed her right in front of him. When the survivors were picked up by Exhibition, Alex had personally taken care of Artyom, who had been catatonic for nearly a year after that event. Afterwards, the mere sight of a rat would send him into a minor panic attack.

He had overcome his fear when he had begun firearms training. He strongly suspected this was due to the fact that instead of the targets his fellow trainees were shooting at, he took aim at rats and shot each one dead without missing. People believed that lurkers were a form of mutated rat. Small, hairless body, annoying screech, and choosing to utilize hit-and-run strikes with numbers on larger prey, they were a nuisance in the Metro with their habit of burrowing tunnels, which weakened foundations. They were either shot on sight or burned out of their hidey-holes.

"I really hate them," Artyom said with finality.

Bourbon arched an eyebrow but shrugged the whole thing off and walked on. "It was just a single lurker… They rarely attack groups of people, but if you're alone, watch your ass."

They jogged down the tunnel in silence for a bit till something moved to their right. Bourbon shined his light at the source and cursed in surprise when bats scattered from the offending brightness. "Fuck!"

Artyom looked at what the bats were on top of and crinkled his nose again. The bats had been on top of a corpse, months in decay.

"Unlucky bastard," Bourbon simply said.

"There's something here," Artyom said. He breathed through his mouth and pulled the body aside. It was a rifle of some kind, but one Artyom wasn't familiar with. "What is this?"

Bourbon looked over his shoulder and whistled. "Wow, nice find. It's a Tihar."

Artyom picked up the strange weapon and turned it over in his hands. The stock was nothing more than an air tank which connected to the body of the rifle, where a gauge had been fitted on the pipe on the right side. A long metal barrel, with a hand pump below it serving as a handguard, and a clear plastic tube on top containing what looked like metal balls. "A Tihar?"

"Air gun," Bourbon said. "Fires 15 mm ball bearings. You pump air to prime it, then fire away. Quiet and deadly. I don't care for it, since you have to pump it every five or so shots. Shoot more than that, and it gets too weak to use. When the pressure is too weak, it doesn't kill anything, range is shorter, and accuracy sucks. Too much of a pain in the ass."

"Well, I'll still take it," Artyom said. He took the pneumatic rifle and started cranking the lever. The pressure gauge's needle started moving. "Can't be worse than the Bastard."

Bourbon shook his head and continued onwards. "Do whatever you want."

Artyom stood up and jogged to catch up, while still figuring out the mechanics of his new rifle. The body had some ball bearings for him to pocket, but he saw that reloading it would be a challenge. He popped out the plastic tube, careful not to let the few balls inside drop, and placed more inside. Once the tube was full—fifteen ball bearings in total—he carefully popped the tube back in.

_Seems simple enough, but nothing I can use in a heated firefight._

If what Bourbon said was true, though, it would be an excellent first-strike weapon… provided no one was aware of Artyom's presence.

His musings were cut short when the pipes groaned around them. Artyom looked around for the source but couldn't readily identify it.

"Strange sounds… Either the ground is making that noise, or the wind…" Bourbon muttered. "I also heard tales of singing pipes. They say if you listen long enough, you can hear the voices of the dead… What bullshit."

"You think this is the time for ghost stories?" Artyom rhetorically asked.

Bourbon chuckled.

Artyom was about to say something when the pipe to his right groaned again. Pausing, he looked at it quizzically. When he was sure Bourbon wasn't looking, he knelt next to the pipe and put his ear next to it. The moment he did so, the sounds of children laughing could be heard.

Suppressing the urge to yelp, Artyom shot up and backed away. The sudden movement caught Bourbon's attention. "What's wrong?" Bourbon asked.

"Thought I saw a lurker," Artyom lied. It took all of his will to keep his face from revealing his thoughts. As it stood, his heart rate was aiming for the roof. "Trick of the shadows."

Bourbon grunted and marched on. Artyom hurriedly followed without looking back at the pipes.

**~o~O~o~**

"Be extra-quiet here," Bourbon whispered after they climbed through the wreckage of a train car. "There should be a roadblock in the second tunnel. We don't want to draw their attention."

"You mean the Hansa?" Artyom asked quietly.

"Greedy bastards won't like us poking around their tunnels," Bourbon answered.

They took measured steps, keeping their ears open for the sounds of anyone ahead whilst keeping their own approach quiet. Artyom was of mixed feelings, part dread at what would happen if they got caught, part childish excitement at the thrill of danger.

Bourbon suddenly ran ahead and started checking something on the ground. Artyom caught up and saw it was a dead body.

_No tooth or claw marks, no bullet wounds… looks like he was killed with a knife._

"Shit! Caravaners," Bourbon said. He knelt next to the corpse and started rifling through the pockets. "Nothing on him. That means bandits. And Hansa boasted that they'd wiped them out."

"If they said that, it might mean there aren't many," Artyom said. "A bigger gang would get noticed. They could be just stragglers hiding after their gang was wiped out."

Bourbon nodded. "You're probably right. Keep your eyes peeled—they won't let us pass freely."

Artyom shined his light at the end of the tunnel, where it had caved in. More bodies belonging to the caravan were strewn about. "I can see that."

"Kid, over here," Bourbon hissed.

Artyom turned his light over to his companion and noted the cans tied to strings.

"Alarm system," Bourbon muttered. "Ancient, but quite efficient."

"For mutants, maybe," Artyom replied. "We use the same setup at my home station. How effective are those things on people?"

"Depends on the person," Bourbon said, and he set about cutting the wires. "It happens more often than you think, especially to careless fools."

Artyom nodded, though Bourbon didn't see it, preoccupied as he was. Once the cans were no longer a problem, Bourbon approached the door at the end of the hall and carefully opened it.

"Look out," Artyom whispered. He briefly shined his light on the ground before turning it off.

Bits of broken glass, though most remained in large pieces, were littering the ground.

"There's your human trap," Bourbon muttered. "Any crunch or crackle would give us away."

Bourbon crossed the threshold, gingerly sidestepping the apparent trap. Artyom did the same but took a moment to observe their surroundings. It appeared to be an office but had had no one inside for quite some time.

"No sentry?" Artyom whispered.

Bourbon cocked his head and listened for the sounds of any kind of threat. After a second or two, he shook his head and shrugged. He moved to the next door, placed his ear against it, and listened. Again, he shook his head at Artyom and slowly opened the rusty door. Peering down this time, he paused.

Artyom shot him a quizzical look.

Bourbon opened the door a bit more and pointed at the ground. "Trip wire. An excellent way to get rid of the blind and daredevils."

Fearlessly, he hopped over the wire.

Artyom let his eyes adjust to the gloom and saw that the wire led to a sawed-off shotgun wired to a cinderblock just behind the door. Taking out his wire cutters, Artyom clipped the wire and inspected the gun a bit more. Sadly, it was bolted to the block, making it too difficult to retrieve, but cracking it open and retrieving the shells was easy enough.

The sounds of someone whistling made both men freeze on the spot to try to ascertain the direction.

As one, they carefully navigated the hallway until they came upon a larger room. However, it was too dim to make out what it was for. Large crates of some kind littered the area, and with their view blocked, there was no way to tell how many bandits might be in the room with them.

Bourbon took a few steps back until they were huddled together in the previous room. "They barricaded themselves," he whispered, his voice so quiet that Artyom had to tilt his head to hear. "We need to get through."

Artyom nodded. "I can handle it."

Bourbon looked skeptical. "Really?"

"A Polis Ranger taught me a few tricks," Artyom said. "Just give me a few minutes."

Bourbon's doubtful look didn't lessen, but he simply shrugged as if to say, "Your funeral," and squatted down. It didn't escape Artyom's notice that his 'ally' was facing the door that led back to the tunnels of Riga.

_Ready to cut and run, I see…_

Artyom took quiet, measured steps back into the bandit hideout, mindful to keep his breathing long and steady to avoid detection and mentally cataloguing all of Hunter's lessons in mind.

Some time ago and about a month after a failed bandit attack on Exhibition that had taken the lives of four people, Hunter had visited and, upon hearing the news, decided that it was time to up the level of Artyom's training to more than just firearm marksmanship. In the new world they existed in, the very act of living was hard, and to survive it, Hunter was determined to make Artyom tougher. Up until that point, Artyom had never killed another human, only mutants. Hunter had resolved to change that.

Without Alex knowing, Hunter had taken Artyom in the middle of the night, hammering stealth lessons into the young man as they stalked the tunnels until they found the bandit camp—seven men total. Throughout the grueling trek, Hunter had showed Artyom all manner of ways to kill a man quietly, violently, and mercilessly—only to vanish with the dead as evidence anyone had ever been there. At the edge of the camp, Hunter had handed Artyom a trench knife and ordered him to go and quietly kill every man there. If he had been caught at any point, then he would have had to fight his way out or die. Hunter would not have helped under any circumstances.

Artyom had been a quivering wreck by the time the horrid task was complete and said nothing to Hunter on the journey back to Exhibition. The only solace the young man had had was that he was successful in his task: none of the bandits had ever known Artyom was there. Hunter had looked both surprised and pleased, but neither he nor Artyom spoke of the incident again except for one last parting advice from the Ranger before he'd left.

"_Your first strike is always the most important, Artyom. It makes the difference of killing one or one hundred more before they even realize you were ever there. These are people that won't hesitate to end you, a mere boy, but they'll certainly hesitate when they think they're up against a ghost."_

Artyom didn't want to talk about that day, but had nevertheless continued his stealth training in private.

_I am a shadow._

Creeping into the room, Artyom let the darkness shroud him like a cloak while he let his eyes further adjust to the gloom, careful to avoid looking at the meager light sources from scattered gas lamps, burning barrels, or the fire pit further in. He counted at least four bandits but knew there to be more around. His estimate was right when he heard a sneeze just around the corner of one of the large crates.

A cautious peek showed a bandit lighting up a cigarette in the dark. His other comrades were milling about the fire pit, exchanging stories about their latest conquest. Striking quickly, Artyom drew his knife and rammed it into the man's neck, letting the blade block any sound the bandit could make. A quiet gurgle was all the victim could utter before the blood filled his throat. Artyom pulled the man down, ignoring the flailing limbs that were already growing slack.

The bandit's laugher at the campfire drowned out all sound.

_I am a phantom._

Slowly pulling out his knife, Artyom left the dying man—already unconscious and beyond help—and continued to stalk the shadows. Three more guards that were walking the perimeter of the room were similarly dispatched: brutally, quietly, and without mercy. Each time, Artyom had to forcibly remind himself that the bandits would kill him if they saw him, just like how they had killed the caravaners. Furthermore, resources were tight, so he couldn't afford a firefight with so many.

_I am a ghost._

Finally, the three at the campfire were done with whatever it was they were doing. One stayed behind to warm himself, but the other two split up to different areas of the room. Artyom quickly stalked up to the closest one and covered his mouth, simultaneously stabbing once into a kidney to drain the fight out of his target before withdrawing his knife and ramming it into the man's flank, going through the lung and piercing the heart. Carefully dropping his latest kill, Artyom swiftly drew his new Tihar rifle and took aim at the furthest bandit. The man was walking toward one of the bodies Artyom had left behind. He froze when he saw his friend, but just as he opened his mouth to shout, a metal ball bearing penetrated his skull just above the ear. The body fell limply.

The sound the body made when it struck the ground caught the last bandit's attention. He drew a Duplet and tried to see through the darkness, but staring at the fire had ruined his night vision. "Hey, what was th—?"

His query was cut off when another ball bearing was shot through the back of his head.

Artyom did one last sweep of the room, pumping the Tihar as he did so. Safe for now, he placed his Bastard SMG inside his backpack in favor of the bandit's Duplet.

_Time to sell that piece of shit._

"Bourbon," Artyom called out quietly. "We can move forward."

After a minute, Bourbon guardedly peered into the room and let out a low whistle, which Artyom hissed at.

"Quiet," Artyom snapped. "**This** room is clear. I don't know if there are more in the next."

"Sorry," Bourbon said. "I thought you were bullshitting me when you said a Ranger trained you."

"I didn't say 'trained'," Artyom said, downplaying his skills. "We need to keep moving."

Bourbon nodded and this time let Artyom lead.

Artyom didn't know how he felt about their new, if only temporary, arrangement. The last thing he wanted was for Bourbon to watch his back, but since they were in the middle of a bandit camp, it wasn't likely that Bourbon would betray him here of all places—if Bourbon was going to betray him at all.

There were three more bandits in the adjoining rooms—all were dispatched using the Tihar—before they crossed through the hideout and back onto the next set of tracks leading to wherever Bourbon wanted to go.

The older man was impressed. "Ha. Bastards never knew we were there."

"That's how I prefer it," Artyom replied.

Bourbon took the lead back. "The bridge is a nasty place, so here's the plan: I'll keep you covered, and you watch my back. If we work together, we'll make it. But don't play hero, boy—I'm in no mood to get killed today!"

"I got it," Artyom replied tightly. "How much further?"

"Just over—shit!" Bourbon turned on his light at the bridge and was lucky to do so. There was a large gap from when it had crumbled, leading to inky depths below. Bats or some mutated variant of bats flew out from the opening, causing Bourbon to pedal backward until Artyom steadied him.

Turning on his light and ignoring the pests that were still flying upward, Artyom judged the distance of the gap and shook his head. "No way to jump this."

"On the right," Bourbon said after he steadied himself. "There's some stairs. We can make the jump there."

True to his word, some dilapidated but sturdy metal stairs were closer and looked reachable. They took turns making the leap and crossed without drama. However, when they descended, both men took a whiff and crinkled their noses.

"Some kind of gas," Bourbon said, and he quickly slipped on his gas mask. Artyom hurriedly did the same.

Just as they did so, they heard the familiar howls of nosalises and readied themselves.

"Come on! I'm here, bitches!" Bourbon shouted. He had drawn a type of shotgun Artyom had never seen before.

Duplet in hand, Artyom took aim at the agile mutants as they converged on them.

"They're climbing along the walls!" Artyom warned.

A nosalis leapt from the concrete wall it had been climbing to try to tackle either man, but the booms of shotguns cut its flight short.

Several more started climbing the walls, swinging from pipes, whatever it took to surround them.

Artyom and Bourbon fought back-to-back, two strangers that had no reason to trust each other besides the primitive desire to survive. The fight was brief, and only ten nosalises tried to kill them before the rest decided that easier prey could be found elsewhere and scurried away.

Artyom felt his heart hammering in his chest, but kept his breathing steady and even lest he waste his filter. He didn't have any spares, and there was no telling how many more environmental threats lay ahead.

"Let's go," Bourbon said when it was clear.

For now.

Climbing up another set of stairs back onto the tracks, they could hear another wave of mutants growling in the darkness.

"Sounds like they've regrouped," Artyom whispered.

"Hoping to take us down with numbers," Bourbon muttered. He checked to see if his shotgun was fully loaded with shells.

"Can't be many left," Artyom said.

Just as he spoke, three more crawled their way onto their level and rushed them. Their shotguns boomed in the darkness, and all three went down in a heap in front of them. They listened carefully for any more, but not even a hiss could be heard.

"Let's go before their friends show up," Bourbon said.

They quickly jogged down the track, keeping the lights shined ahead of them, on the walls around them, and on the ceiling whenever possible. After a few minutes, Bourbon dashed behind some debris and ducked down.

"Artyom! Hush…" Bourbon urgently said, and he motioned for him to get down. Artyom knelt behind Bourbon quickly. "That's a Hansa military trolley. They're looking for the bandits."

Artyom tilted his head and listened intently. He could hear the rumble of an engine echoing off the walls, but couldn't tell what direction it was coming from. It soon became apparent when a light dimly lit the adjacent tracks that there was a car chugging down the tunnel ahead.

While they were waiting for the car to pass, Artyom heard the familiar snarl of a watchman and cursed.

"Fuck, we're pinned," Bourbon said.

"I've got an idea," Artyom said. He carefully peeked around his cover and judged the distance of the approaching railcar. Picking up a rock, he waited until it was close enough before lobbing it in the direction of the growls.

The watchmen pounced at the sound, framing them nicely for the Hansa guards, who saw the mutants immediately and started shouting and shooting.

"Very nice," Bourbon said, barely heard over the staccato of gunfire. "Just wait for them to finish…"

After a few failed attempts, the watchmen realized that they couldn't climb the walls fast enough to attack the railcar and started running away deeper into the tunnels. The Hansa guards were quick to pursue, and it wasn't long before silence reigned once again.

"Clear?" Artyom whispered.

Bourbon peered around and nodded. "Looks like it. Let's go."

They jogged as quickly as they dared, occasionally taking the lower maintenance catwalks or the upper train tracks to get around broken sections or debris blockages. They encountered small packs of watchmen, but they were dispatched quickly and without drama. Ahead, their lights shined onto a lone train car that was precariously bridging the gap on the broken bridge on the upper level. With Bourbon still in the lead, he cautiously poked his head in before nodding to Artyom and clambered aboard. However, once Artyom followed his travelling partner inside, the car shifted ominously.

_Damn it._

"Shit!" Bourbon shouted, and he started sprinting for the other end. "We're gonna fall! Run!"

Pumping his legs as hard as he could, Artyom recklessly followed Bourbon and blindly jumped out of the threshold at the other end of the carriage. Both men landed roughly on the opposite side of the chasm, narrowly missing each other.

Gasping, Artyom scrambled backwards on his hands and feet, eyes glued on the train car that broke and fell into the waters below.

Bourbon slowly got up and met Artyom's eyes. "Wow, that was some ride!"

"And one we shouldn't take again," Artyom muttered. As he got up, his hand brushed against something. Turning his light downward, he spotted a rotting corpse—nothing new in the Metro—but smiled when he saw some filters poking out of a torn pocket. He quickly took them and patted the body for anything else of value before standing up.

"All set?" Bourbon asked. Without waiting for an affirmation, he turned and jogged down the walkways again.

Artyom checked his watch, which he had set to estimate how long his filter would last. Given that he had just fought some mutants and run down the length of a train car, he had probably breathed heavier than he should have, which shortened the life of the filter. He swapped out for a fresh filter and reset the timer before jogging to catch up to Bourbon.

The older man was inspecting the blocked tunnel in their path and shook his head. "A cave-in. Shit!"

Artyom looked to the side. "What about this?"

"A staircase, how convenient… Seems to me we're being lured in."

"Unless you see any better paths…" Artyom said.

Bourbon eyed the raised stairs before grunting. "Fuck it—let's go!"

More growls in the dark caused both men to ready their weapons once more.

"The Hansa car might be driving them towards us," Artyom said. "We keep fighting like this, and we'll run out of ammo before we reach Dry."

Bourbon pushed at the rusty crank, but it didn't budge. "_Suka_! Move it, _blin_!" he yelled before giving it a swift kick.

That did the trick. The crank started spinning as the stairs fell into position. Artyom shot two watchmen and cracked open his Duplet to reload.

"Move it, kid!" Bourbon shouted, and he took the stairs two or three at a time. Artyom was right on his heels.

They ran through a doorway, entered the hallway, and prepared to gun down the watchmen chasing them, but were shocked when they heard them move further away.

"Sounds like they gave up the chase," Artyom muttered. "Why?"

"No clue, but it's good fortune for us," Bourbon grunted. He checked his pockets. "Still got ammo?"

Artyom checked his ammo pouch. "A handful of shells and ball bearings left. Some .44 for my revolver. You?"

"Some shells, 7.62, and my swinging cock," Bourbon answered after doing a quick inventory. "We should have enough to get to the next station. We'll pick up some supplies there." He looked down the dank tunnel they found themselves in. "Now where are we…?"

"Looks like the adjacent sewers next to the Metro tunnels," Artyom said. He observed their surroundings with no small amount of disgust. Decades' worth of all manner of muck and grime coated everything.

"Perfect," Bourbon muttered. "Let's make this quick, or we'll need to scrub ourselves down with steel wool when we get out of here."

Glowing fungi helped light the way as they trudged through the filth around them. The air was thick and humid, and more than once, their boots stepped into something that made a sickening squelch. For their peace of mind, neither of the men commented on it and quietly shook their legs as they ambled onwards.

At the end, the hallway opened to a larger room with smaller grates lining the walls. An exit at the other end was blocked by a rusty old gate. However, what really caught their attention was the massive pile of bodies strewn haphazardly around the room.

"_Suka_! As if nosalises behind us were not enough, now we're stuck in fucking graveyard," Bourbon said in disgust. "Let's try that gate. Watch my back."

Artyom nodded. "Yeah."

As they entered the room, Artyom bent over and inspected the nearest corpse. "Bourbon, I don't think this is a graveyard."

"What? Of course it is," Bourbon said. "Why else would there be a pile of bodies in one spot?"

"Bourbon, they still have supplies on them," Artyom said. He rifled through the pockets of the corpse and found military-grade ammo, some filters, Metro reused ammo, and even a few Molotov cocktails. Another quick check of a nearby corpse revealed even more useful items, including throwing knives. "They all have supplies still. I think these two were guards."

"What the hell?" Bourbon muttered. He inspected a different corpse, then started tugging the boots off. "You're right. This one still has his boots. They look like they're in pretty good condition. No way anyone would let a corpse keep boots this nice."

Artyom stood up and was about to speak when the room seemingly vanished, replaced with a long, dark hallway. Suppressing his involuntary urge to scream, Artyom's eyes widened and he spun around, trying to determine where he was or what had happened. A misty, distorted figure that resembled Bourbon was approaching the rusty gate, but at the other end of the hall was a set of massive doors. Ominous, foreboding red light seeped through the seams.

Artyom blinked, and he was back in the sewers again. He tried to shed the terrifying sensation from his mind. Bourbon was there, clear as day this time, instead of looking like something coming out of a haze of smoke. The older man looked disoriented as he leaned on a column.

"Bourbon," Artyom rasped. "We need to leave. Something killed these people. Even mutants haven't come to eat the corpses. We can't stay here. We need to go. Right now."

Bourbon nodded. A sheen of sweat appeared on his brow. "Y-yeah. We need to go. Get what you can from the corpses. I'll get the gate open."

Artyom quickly patted down a few more bodies for useful items: ammunition, more filters, and other assorted goods. All were hastily stuffed into his backpack or pockets.

"Rusty piece of shit!" Bourbon shouted. "Come on, open!"

As Artyom raised his head to glance at Bourbon, the room changed again to the darkened hallway. He was standing ankle-deep in something that was definitely not water. It was too viscous, too thick, yet somehow more slippery than water. Artyom's light didn't seem to work and failed to illuminate the area, making his treacherous imagination conjure all sorts of ideas of what they were standing in.

"Artyom, my gut tells me something is very wrong with this place!" Bourbon screamed. "Remember our agreement—I'm counting on you, kid!"

A heavy groan demanded Artyom's attention. He faced the large doors and saw they were creaking open. The red light that had only appeared frightening was now downright terrifying. Some invisible force seemed to pull at them, dragging them both toward the doors. Bourbon pulled at the wheel with all his might.

_It's not real. It's not real!_

Artyom closed his eyes shut and flailed around. His left hand struck the stone column, and the pain jarred him back into reality. Back in the sewer again.

"Come on! Nice little grille!" Bourbon muttered. He sounded drunk. Or high. "I promise you, dear, I will come back and lubricate you… also get you new paint."

"Bourbon," Artyom called out. His throat felt dry, his voice almost as raspy as Bourbon's. He staggered towards the gate.

"Oh, the great door! I hear you are calling me!" Bourbon cried out rapturously.

Artyom kept his eyes open, refusing to close them, to blink, to lose focus, but somehow the room melted away in front of his very eyes, and they were back in the hallway of death.

"Yes, my mistress! I hear you! Yes, yes, yes! Always, always!" Bourbon rambled.

"No!" Artyom screamed. He could feel the door behind him, trying to pull him back. Towards his death, he was sure. He pumped his legs, sloshing through the river of not-water, of whatever it was, trying to get to Bourbon and the now-open gate.

"Oh yes! Now I am happy! Your songs are magnificent! Sing more! Sing only for me!" Bourbon yelled fanatically. The man had slumped to the ground, arms wrapped around the wheel that opened the gate.

Grasping the threshold, Artyom glanced back and saw that the red light seemed to be pulsating, as if it was a heartbeat, as if it was alive, seeking to consume the both of them. Keeping his right hand firmly clutching the doorway, Artyom seized the back of Bourbon's jacket and desperately pulled, trying to get the older man to safety. But death's pull seemed stronger, nearly ripping Artyom away from the gate. He refused to leave Bourbon behind, but the dragging sensation was almost too much for him to endure with just one arm clinging to life.

"Help!" Artyom screamed. He closed his eyes and bit back a sob. "Someone, please help us!"

As if someone—or something—heard his plea, he felt the grasp of a large hand on his right forearm. It was warm and huge. The fingers easily curled around his entire arm. More importantly, Artyom could feel how many fingers were wrapped around him: just four.

With a mighty yank, Artyom felt himself thrown forwards, Bourbon in tow, and the chilly specter of death seemed to lose its hold on them.

Artyom's eyes shot open when he felt the ground beneath him. No River Styx, or blood, or whatever that liquid was. The endless dark hallway was gone, and the familiar appearance of the Moscow sewers was back.

To his left, Bourbon gasped and rolled onto his back as he scrambled away from the gate.

"RUN!" Artyom shouted.

Both men clambered to their feet unsteadily. They tried to run, but it was more like the staggered shuffle of a drunkard. Still, they didn't fall or stop until they had put some distance between themselves and whatever the hell it was they had just left behind.

Eventually, they had to rest, and took a moment to try to regain their bearings.

"Ahhh! What the hell just happened to me?!" Bourbon shouted. Taking in gulps of air, Bourbon doubled over and rested his hands on his knees. "Artyom, did you hear those songs?!"

Artyom was hardly better, but managed to stay upright, though a layer of sweat coated his body and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. He shook his head. "No… but I think I saw something else."

"God damn it, I wouldn't wish it on an enemy," Bourbon gasped out.

"I think we're safe for now, but I guess we know why those people died… and why there were no mutants eating them," Artyom whispered.

"_Suka_… what the fuck was that?" Bourbon rasped out. He was white as a sheet and looked to be on the verge of puking in his mask. "I thought we were supposed to fall unconscious or some shit like that, not hallucinate that we were walking through the valley of fucking death!"

Artyom shook his head. "I don't know. I've never heard of anything like this. I thought you'd know more about it than I would."

Bourbon looked at Artyom in a different light. "I thought we were just going to go unconscious," he repeated. He wildly gestured in the direction they had just run from. "Tunnels aren't a good place to take a nap. You never know when a mutant might come to snack on you. Figured you would keep me awake. Thought it might be some kind of gas or some shit like that. But whatever the hell that is…"

"I don't know," Artyom repeated. He was clenching and unclenching his right hand. The ghostly sensation of the Dark One's hand clasping his arm… pulling him to safety, it had felt so **real**. However, tunnel they were in had no branches, small grates, and no other side paths. No place for something as big as a Dark One to hide, but Artyom was sure it had been there, somehow.

"Fuck this place," Bourbon said. He spat on the ground and straightened up. Like Artyom, he was sweating profusely despite the chilly temperature of the tunnel. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"Agreed," Artyom said. He took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his brow. His heavy breaths must have surely wasted the filter, so he popped a new one in and pocketed the used one just in case it still could work and his current one got saturated before they reached the station. "Right now."

Bourbon screwed on a new filter, too, and immediately jogged onwards, albeit unsteadily.

Artyom's stride was more graceful, though he could still feel terror permeating his very bones. His hands were still shaking, making him pray that they wouldn't run into any mutants for the time being. He wasn't sure if he could even shoot them at point-blank range, given how rattled he felt.

The tunnel was linear, and it was sloping upwards. Artyom could practically feel the sewer gas sliding off his body. At the top of the incline, Bourbon slid his mask up to take a whiff of the air before taking it off. Artyom took a tentative sniff test of his own before doffing his mask and clipping it on his belt.

"How much further?" Artyom muttered. He was sorely wishing to be back at Exhibition, now more than ever, but was willing to settle for civilization of some sort.

"Can't be much further. I think the tunnels ahead lead back to the Metro," Bourbon answered.

True to his word, once they managed to force an old metal door open, the familiar sight of train tracks in a large, spacious tunnel appeared before them. Glad to be out of the sewers, they continued to walk in silence for a time until a large metal door illuminated by a harsh red light could be seen in the dim tunnel.

"And here is the Market. Stay calm—Uncle Bourbon will get us in," the older man said with a grin.

Artyom manufactured a smile and a nod. Privately, he was amazed that they had made it and even more amazed that Bourbon was true to his word thus far about helping him out of Riga without any sort of ulterior motive.

_Then again, I did save his life from… whatever that was._

Not wanting to think about what they had just endured, Artyom shook the memory away and refocused on the present.

Good thing he did, too, because the familiar snarls of nosalises could be heard echoing down the tunnel. Given the constant overlapping sounds, it was probably a large pack of them.

"Hey, people! Open up! Don't let your two-legged brethren die a foolish death!" Bourbon shouted. When no one answered, Bourbon started kicking the thick solid metal door. "Are you deaf in there?! We're going to be eaten!"

Artyom took a deep breath and steadied his nerves. He had recovered from their brush with death and was ready for a fight now. His headlamp shined in the dark tunnel, seeking out threats to shoot at.

Thankfully, it seemed someone heard Bourbon's pleas. Someone behind the gate started ringing an alarm bell. Someone appeared in a barred guard post overlooking the gate.

"Motherfuckers! Who the hell did you drag with you?!" a guard yelled. The sounds of growls grew ever louder. "Damn, nosalises! Semyon, start the trolley! We'll save their asses!"

Bourbon readied his shotgun. "Artyom, hang on! Fate's on our side!"

"There!" Artyom shouted. He aimed his Duplet at a charging nosalis and almost blew its head clean off with a well-aimed shot.

"They're on the walls!" Bourbon warned.

"They're crawling through the grates, too!"

"Ah! Push them back!"

As much as Artyom preferred the Duplet over the Bastard, he despised having to reload every two shots constantly, especially when so many nosalises were crawling towards them. When he was sure Bourbon could hold off their attacks for a few seconds, Artyom knelt down, opened his backpack, and pulled out a Molotov. Taking out his trusty lighter, he ignited a bottle and threw it at one of the grates the mutants were crawling out of. Their menacing snarls changed to screams of pain quickly.

"Nice one!" Bourbon said.

"Where's our help?!" Artyom demanded.

On a set of tracks on the other side of the tunnel, a klaxon light was flashing.

"They're readying the railcar! Just hold on for a few more seconds!" the guard yelled back. Safe behind steel bars, he shot at the mutants to provide some covering fire.

Artyom muttered a curse and prepped another Molotov.

Between both men, they managed a desperate defense that took down seven more mutants. Finally, a railcar drove through the far doors and, fitted with a mounted machine gun, started mowing the nosalises down.

"Let's kick some snout butts!" one of the guards yelled gleefully over the tremendous racket.

Finally, whatever rage that fueled the nosalises was spent as their numbers dwindled to the point where self-preservation finally kicked in. Cutting their losses, the rest were routed and fled the area.

Panting, Artyom marveled over the fact that he had managed to reach another station… under attack by nosalises and barely surviving the encounter yet again.

"I need a drink," he muttered to Bourbon.

"Hey, you! Show yourselves!" said one of the guards riding the railcar.

"Do as he says," Bourbon said cautiously. "These guys have no sense of humor."

Artyom nodded and turned off his light, allowing the railcar's spotlight to shine into his face. He squinted and resisted the urge to turn away or put his hand up to block the light.

"Are my eyes playing tricks? Bourbon, old friend, is that you?!" the guard asked, but not in a friendly manner. "And I'd given up hope of ever seeing you alive again! Simon, look who the Snouts scared up!"

"This is bad, isn't it?" Artyom asked.

"God damn it… we stepped in the shit now," Bourbon said with small sigh. He plastered a smile on his face and waved at the car. "Hey, Mikhalych! What a coincidence, I was just coming to visit you!"

"You hear that, boys? Set out the good dishes—Bourbon's come to visit!" the guard mockingly replied.

"Yeah, this is bad," Artyom said with a sigh. "Just tell me we're not going to be arrested."

Before Bourbon could answer, Mikhalych continued speaking over his subordinate's laugher. "Now, don't go running off, Bourbon. We've got a little job to finish, then we'll get back to you. Remember where you should wait for me?"

Resigned, Bourbon said, "I do, I do…"

Mikhalych's voice grew more menacing and less 'jovial'. "You sure? I can help you remember. You get me, right?"

Bourbon put his hands up. "Absolutely."

"Open the gate!" Mikhalych shouted.

The heavy metal door slowly opened, revealing a guard post behind it. Three guards were stationed there, two armed with Kalashes and one manning a mounted machine gun emplacement. A bright spotlight shined harshly on them.

Bourbon slung his shotgun and put his hands behind his head. Artyom was quick to emulate as they marched past the threshold and towards the guards.

_I can't believe I choose to do this…_

**~o~O~o~**

**Author's Notes:**

Been playing _Mass Effect_ and _Metro_ during lockdown, so I managed to punch up chapters for both! Yay!


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